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 May 2016 Tom Blake
nivek
even skeletal remains play music
if you stand in a graveyard and listen
your own bones will rattle in tune.
Let me take you to the dark side of the woods
All that dies here is the good
Let me show you that spot
This is where I fought
He had me tied, I could go no where
I was terrified and scared
He did his deed
And left my soul forever to bleed
It will always seep with rage and anguish
Part of me will always remain and languish
There in the dark side of woods
That day all that died in me was the good
 May 2016 Tom Blake
Maggie Emmett
(for my brother, Martin)

I have sown the moon in the sky for you
so every night its there for you to see

I have stopped every clock from ticking time away
I have turned the tides back from the shore

I have stopped your world in blue belled Spring
and locked my in the falling leaves of Autumn

So now you can rewind the moments of the world
You can go back, to that one moment of choice

and never find the hose, nor set the engine deadly running
nor send those texts of fond farewells, to friends who looked away

nor write to me with love a comfort letter
for the dreadful loss.

No!
Just you:

the tufted, still blonde cowlick sticking up
the crinkled nose and cheeky smile
those sea blue eyes to drown in
strong brown arms, muscles flexed and toned
wrapped tight around me warm
and alive.


© M.L.Emmett
My brother killed himself on 26th April 2007.
 May 2016 Tom Blake
Marigold
I will never understand
the happenings of some things.
Like the horrific and horrible
that happens to the innocent,
like the willful and intentional ignorance,
Of death and pain and torture.

I will never understand
how evil is doled out among us.
By chance, by fate, by deliberate decision?

I will never understand
The recovery that happens,
After the unforgivable; forgiveness,
After death; new life.

I will never understand
Love that won't go away,
Even when told,
Even when begged,
Even when commanded.


I will never understand
how you go on.
I will never understand
how I go on.
I will never understand why.
Have these feeling and their all wrong
No sleep again all night long

Don't mind the blood splattered on the walls
Or on the floor, from my hand where it falls

It's nothing really just the same old song
My demons just wanted me to sing along
Most the time it's my fault
Always in the path when the bullet's shot
All I have to show
Is a heart full of bullet holes
I'll be glad when you're dead
You ******* you
When you're dead..... in your grave
No more children will you crave

I'll be glad when you're dead
You ******* you
When you're dead..... shot in the head
For your sickness that you fed

I'll be glad when you're dead
You ******* you
When you're dead..... and at Hell's gate
No more monsters can you create

I'll be glad when you're dead
You ******* you
When you're dead..... you won't be missed
Maybe my nightmares won't exist

I'll be glad when you're dead
You ******* you
When you're dead..... with all your sin
It'll be cursed ground you sink in
 May 2016 Tom Blake
Kathryn Heim
Between life and death
and all the rest
emotions fly
and we don't know why.
But onward  through
our journey true
the highs and lows
the news and olds
what things seem
and what we mean
one thing is sure
for us born pure
one simple birth
upon this earth
will always be
for you and me
one and all
to catch our fall
when our hope strays
a God that stays
is always seen
everywhere
and in between.
i read a poem that made me question
the things i've been calling poetry
it made me feel that what i write
simply isn't enough

i could do better

the poem was about a woman
and i felt whole
and the words weren't for me,
about me,
but i felt whole
in ways i can't explain
and i'll never be able to

but i thought to myself
that this is poetry
and this is what words
are supposed to do
they're supposed to make
you feel things
regardless of what
and i kept wondering
if my words
have that effect

i want people to yern,
long,
hope,
survive off my words,
devour them
and i want my words
to leave them longing
and hoping for just a bit more

and i read this poem not once,
not twice,
but three times,
eating up the words like they
were the last meal on earth
and i felt whole
unedited.
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